Read Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly Online
Authors: James M. Cain
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION. MAY 1989
Copyright © 1989 by Alice Marie Piper
Serenade
copyright 1937 by James M. Cain
Copyright renewed 1964 by James M. Cain
The Butterfly
copyright 1946 and renewed 1974 by James M. Cain
Love’s Lovely Counterfeit
copyright 1942 and renewed 1970 by James M. Cain
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc.,
New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada
Limited, Toronto.
Serenade
originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred
A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1937.
The Butterfly
originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1947.
Love’s Lovely Counterfeit
originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred A. Knopf. Inc., in 1942.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cain, James M. (James Mallahan), 1892–1977.
Three by Cain.—1st Vintage Books ed.
p. cm.—(Vintage crime)
Contents: Serenade—The butterfly—Love’s lovely counterfeit.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79179-5
I. Title
PS3505.A3113A6 1989 88-40551
813’.52—dc19
v3.1
CONTENTS
Serenade
C H A P T E R
1
I was in the Tupinamba, having a
bizcocho
and coffee, when this girl came in. Everything about her said Indian, from the maroon
rebozo
to the black dress with purple flowers on it, to the swaying way she walked, that no woman ever got without carrying pots, bundles, and baskets on her head from the time she could crawl. But she wasn’t any of the colors that Indians come in. She was almost white, with just the least dip of
café con leche
. Her shape was Indian, but not ugly. Most Indian women have a rope of muscle over their hips that give them a high-waisted, mis-shapen look, thin, bunchy legs, and too much breast-works. She had plenty in that line, but her hips were round, and her legs had a soft line to them. She was slim, but there was something voluptuous about her, like in three or four years she would get fat. All that, though, I only half saw. What I noticed was her face. It was flat, like an Indian’s but the nose broke high, so it kind of went with the way she held her head, and the eyes weren’t dumb, with that shiny, shoe-button look. They were pretty big, and black, but they leveled out straight, and had kind of a sleepy, impudent look to them. Her lips were thick, but pretty, and of course had plenty of lipstick on them.
It was about nine o’clock at night, and the place was pretty
full, with bullfight managers, agents, newspaper men, pimps, cops and almost everybody you can think of, except somebody you would trust with your watch. She went to the bar and ordered a drink, then went to a table and sat down, and I had a stifled feeling I had had before, from the thin air up there, but that wasn’t it this time. There hadn’t been any woman in my life for quite some while, and I knew what this meant. Her drink came, and it was Coca-Cola and Scotch, and I thought that over. It might mean that she was just starting the evening, and it might mean she was just working up an appetite, and if it meant that I was sunk. The Tupinamba is more of a café than a restaurant, but plenty of people eat there, and if that was what she expected to do, my last three pesos wouldn’t go very far.
I had about decided to take a chance and go over there when she moved. She slipped over to a place about two tables away, and then she moved again, and I saw what she was up to. She was closing in on a bullfighter named Triesca, a kid I had seen a couple of times in the ring, once when he was on the card with Solorzano, that seemed to be their main ace at the time, and once after the main season was over, when he killed two bulls in a novillada they had one Sunday in the rain. He was a wow with the cape, and just moving up into the money. He had on the striped suit a Mexican thinks is pretty nifty, and a cream-colored hat. He was alone, but the managers, agents, and writers kept dropping by his table. She didn’t have much of a chance, but every time three or four or five of them would shove off she would slip nearer. Pretty soon she dropped down beside him. He didn’t take off his hat. That ought to have told me something, but it didn’t. All I saw was a cluck too stuck on himself to know how to act. She spoke, and he nodded, and they talked a little bit, and it didn’t look like she had ever seen him before. She drank out, and he let it ride for a minute, then he ordered another.
When I got it, what she was in there for, I tried to lose interest in her, but my eyes kept coming back to her. After a few minutes, I knew she felt me there, and I knew some of the other tables had tumbled to what was going on. She kept pulling
her
rebozo
around her, like it was cold, and hunching one shoulder up, so she half had her back to me. All that did was throw her head up still higher, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her at all. So of course a bullfighter is like any other ham, he’s watching every table but his own, and he had no more sense than to see these looks that were going round. You understand, it’s a dead-pan place, a big café with a lot of mugs sitting around with their hats on the back of their heads, eating, drinking, smoking, reading, and jabbering Spanish, and there wasn’t any nudging, pointing, or hey-get-a-load-of-this. They strictly minded their business. Just the same, there would be a pair of eyes behind a newspaper that weren’t on the newspaper, or maybe a waitress would stop by somebody, and say something, and there’d be a laugh just a little louder than a waitress’s gag is generally worth. He sat there, with a kind of a foolish look on his face, snapping his fingernail against his glass, and then I felt a prickle go up my spine. He was getting up, he was coming over.
A guy with three pesos in his pocket doesn’t want any trouble, and when the room froze like a stop-camera shot, I tried to tell myself to play it friendly, to get out of it without starting something I couldn’t stop. But when he stood there in front of me he still had on that hat.
“My table, he interest you, ha?”
“Your—what?”
“My table. You look, you seem interest, Señor.”
“Oh, now I understand.”
I wasn’t playing it friendly, I was playing it mean. I got up, with the best smile I could paste on my face, and waved at a chair. “Of course. I shall explain. I shall gladly explain.” Down there you make it simple, because spig reception isn’t any too good. “Please sit down.”
He looked at me and he looked at the chair, but it looked like he had me on the run, so he sat down. I sat down. Then I did something I wanted to do for fifteen minutes. I lifted that cream hat off his head, like it was the nicest thing I knew to do for him, slipped a menu card under it, and put it on a chair.
If he had moved I was going to let him have it, if they shot me for it. He didn’t. It caught him by surprise. A buzz went over the room. The first round was mine.
“May I order you something, Señor?”
He blinked, and I don’t think he even heard me. Then he began looking around for help. He was used to having a gallery yell
Olé
every time he wiped his nose, but it had walked out on him this time. It was all deadpan, what he saw, and so far as they were concerned, we weren’t even there. There wasn’t anything he could do but face me, and try to remember what he had come for.
“The explain. Begin, please.”
I had caught him with one he wasn’t looking for, and I decided to let him have another, right between the eyes. “Certainly. I did look, that is true. But not at you. Believe me, Señor, not at you. And not at the table. At the lady.”
“… You—tell me this? You tell me this thing?”